


lay your heart on the line

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Card Games, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sylvain and Felix attend a last-minute game night. There, Sylvain learns about the chip on Felix's shoulder and, when it comes to their relationship, a lot more than he bargained for.~day 4 of sylvix week: apologies/making up | warmth | tabletop and video games
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 47
Collections: Sylvix Week 2020 Fic Collection





	lay your heart on the line

**Author's Note:**

> running behind by like a week but what else is new!!
> 
> saw the three prompts for day 4 and my dumb brain decided to combine them all together :')

“Felix, c’mon,” Sylvain says with all the pining his voice can possibly muster.

The door standing before him — paint’s peeling on this side, he realizes, they should fix that — remains firmly shut. “Go away.”

“You know that isn’t how this works, right?” Sylvain responds, one hand slowly dragging down his face. He thought Felix would’ve let things go by now considering the time, but it seems haunting hours aren’t exempt from their arguments.

It’s too late to stop his other hand as it ignores Sylvain’s better judgment to — _fuck —_ wrap around the handle to Felix’s room. The lock jiggles like it's laughing at him, and Felix adds from within, “Seriously?”

Maybe if Sylvain possessed an ounce of awareness he’d have the mind to back out, but he continues, “Look, can’t we talk about —”

“No,” Felix promptly cuts off. “Leave me alone.”

Sylvain bites back a noise of frustration. Leave it to Felix to cut through all the bullshit and still leave him drowning in ambiguity.

When it comes to their arguments, Sylvain tends to follow a routine. He’ll poke and prod so he can say he tried his best, then leave Felix alone so he can crawl into his own bedroom, slip under the bedsheets, and work out a fleeting diversion with his hands. He wants to do that now, admittedly, but there’s something about this argument, this entire ordeal, that doesn’t quite resemble the usual hashing out.

It's the glare Felix had flashed at him earlier in the kitchen after Sylvain spouted his usual comments, reminding Sylvain of a bomb cut short of time, that makes him think he's done something terrible.

Really, really terrible.

Normally that's not too surprising of a thought for Sylvain, nor anyone unlucky enough to know him, but for the most part, he’s usually _aware_ of what he’s done. The people around him make sure of that. Felix (except now, apparently) has no problem calling him out for wandering eyes. Ingrid gets a kick (his theory, at least) from dragging Sylvain through the mud, glorious pillar of model behavior that she is. And since one is his boyfriend and the other his childhood friend, he’s used to getting an earful on the daily.

The fact that Felix won’t tell him why, that even _Sylvain_ isn’t aware of the crime he's committed, is driving him up a wall. Think, Gautier. Did he say something inappropriate? Screw over Felix’s best friend? No, that can’t be it. Annette wouldn’t let him near her with a ten-foot pole, and everyone else is aware that Sylvain’s more trouble than he’s worth.

Maybe Felix is just sexually frustrated and also needs to get his rocks off before losing his mind to the relationship that’s perched on a cliffside. 

The vibrating of his phone cuts his investigation short. He pulls it out, and as soon as he sees Ingrid’s name he flinches; another ex hellbent on revenge? 

Doesn’t seem like it. He looks it over and… Oh. Well — okay, that’s unexpected. Normally Ingrid isn’t the type to make plans — she’s got too much going on in her life to put in the effort — but, now that he’s reading over her texts for a second time, there’s no mistaking it. 

“Felix,” Sylvain says.

There’s a _hmph_ from the other side that’s almost inaudible.

Sylvain runs with it. “You free tomorrow night?”

Felix, to his surprise, doesn’t leave him hanging in pathetic silence. “I swear if this is a date —”

“It’s not,” Sylvain interrupts, making note to keep that solution permanently tucked. “Ingrid just texted me. She’s asking if we’re down for an impromptu game night.”

It’s the truth, as alien as the idea must sound to Felix. Sylvain, too. Perhaps Ingrid’s reaching out on Felix’s behalf to address a more serious issue, another intervention for his laundry list of grievances. If he’s unlucky, maybe Ingrid’s mad about the same thing Felix is mad about, and she’s trying to gather the three of them together so they can chew his head off.

A follow-up text easily helps that line of thought. “Oh,” Sylvain says. “She mentioned you. _Make sure to bring Felix._ ”

“Why?” is all Felix bothers to respond with.

“Has to do with some game. She says she wants to play —” he squints as he mumbles the name “— _Catan?_ Never heard of it. The hell is Catan?”

Sylvain should be suspicious. He should, considering the people involved, the delicate situation wrapped around him and Felix. It’s no secret that Felix and Ingrid are close friends as well and, now that Sylvain thinks about it, the two of them coming together makes perfect sense. Saves them both effort.

But could anything Ingrid have up her sleeve be worse than communicating through a locked door? Maybe this’ll be good for them. When’s the last time they talked face-to-face without Felix going for the jugular?

He’s not the only one thinking it over. Whatever revelation Felix is going through in there must be one hell of a gut-punch; he’s ceased all movement entirely.

Sylvain doesn’t ask Felix about it, despite his piqued curiosity. He has a better idea. Gently, carefully, he inches himself forward instead, his knees bending ever-so-slightly until the flat of his ear is pressed against the wood of Felix’s door. It's mild, but Sylvain hears something — a sound approaching from the other side, like socks shuffling across carpet. 

The next time Sylvain hears Felix speaking, he’s standing close enough for Sylvain to tell he’s by the door. “Fine, I’ll go,” he hears Felix say, muffled, almost resigned. “But not for you.”

Sylvain, fully aware that no one’s out in the hallway to see it, grins widely. “She invited _me_ first.”

“Stop pushing it,” Felix retorts. It’d be a lot scarier if Sylvain could see his face speaking and not a big, old door. “I said I’d go, didn’t I?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Like always, Sylvain says it without much thought. Like usual, he’s getting distracted by his hands — this time to text Ingrid his thanks and let her know that they’ll be there.

***

“I don’t get it,” Sylvain says, lacing an extra knot on top of his sneakers. “Usually you hate game night. What’s so special about this one?”

Felix pulls his cardigan off the coat rack, giving it a shake. “I haven’t played Catan in a while,” like that explains jack-shit. 

Sylvain recognizes the fabric. Knitted wool, grey in color, well suited to Felix’s skin tone. He always did prefer thicker clothing. It’s the reason Sylvain’s eyes had been glued to a storefront a few months prior, back when things hadn’t been so rocky and he’d brought it home to appease their first argument. Even now, without Felix’s faces and growls at Sylvain’s obscene requests to show him the back, it fits perfectly around the curve of his figure. 

“I’m not going for you,” Felix makes clear without looking at him, buttoning up the lapels.

“Noted,” Sylvain says, making no attempt to hide his staring.

The distance from their dingy apartment to Ingrid’s isn't far, a few blocks at most. They pass by the ice cream shop Felix can’t admit is his favorite and the book shop Sylvain hides in for distractions stronger than his hands. Unfortunately, the night air is colder than usual, and Felix is making it clear he’s still avoiding contact. Sylvain has to rub his palms together and pant hot air to keep them at a reasonable temperature.

He throws a few glances towards Felix along the way, small and skittish things. None of them elicit a reaction. He’s considering making his advances more obvious until Felix spares a glance at the right moment — shit, this was a bad idea — and catches Sylvain by the tail. 

Without even throwing him a damn bone, Felix scoffs. He readjusts his pace, silently marching, until he’s further up ahead on the sidewalk and they’re nowhere near side-by-side. 

He really regrets wearing no more than a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Sylvain shifts his hands to his arms, rubbing weakly there instead. The back of Felix’s head, hidden under curled locks, looks breathtaking under the streetlight’s glow. As do his shoulders, rigid and tight under the fabric of the cardigan Sylvain questions is even keeping him warm.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks.

***

Okay, so it’s pretty clear to Sylvain that whatever Ingrid keeps herself busy with, it isn’t interior design.

“I don’t see why you’re staring,” she says to him as he stands dead-center in her living room, trying to find something on her walls that isn’t blank or white.

He fails. “I’m not,” Sylvain says. Can’t be caught staring if there’s nothing to stare at.

Ingrid changes the subject. “Work's going well?”

He shrugs. “Can't complain. Anna's working me to death at the office, but that's nothing new.”

“How strange it must be,” Ingrid remarks lightly, “to see you putting in effort.”

“Can we get on with it?” Felix barks from his place by the kitchen island, seated in one of the stools that’s too high for him. The way his legs dangle off the ground, the way he tries to pretend he's taller than he is, is kind of adorable. “You promised me Catan. I’m here for the Catan.”

Sylvain smiles, an easy and relaxed gesture. “Night’s early, babe. Let’s catch a break first.”

“Let’s not.” 

“I suppose,” Ingrid begins from her place by the sofa Sylvain’s pretty sure she picked off the street, “now’s a bad time to mention I don’t have it.”

Sylvain blanches. Felix jumps — actually jumps, which is sort of hilarious — out of the stool and onto his feet. “What did you say?” he says.

“I said I don’t—”

“No, wait, shut up,” Felix backtracks to piece together this new reality. “I heard what you said. Then what’s the point of this? Why are we even here?”

Ingrid casually dusts off her sweater. There’s a slight edge to her voice that raises the hairs on Sylvain’s neck (just drop the damn bomb already.) “As a friend,” she continues, “I thought it’d be nice for us to get together. All of us.”

Sylvain blinks, but it’s Felix who’s most confused, the bridge of his nose scrunching, like he doesn’t understand the meaning of the word _friends._

“Exactly one month ago,” she states with emphasis, though the date is lost on Sylvain entirely. Felix too, it looks like. She continues, “That was the last time we all met up in person, so I figured it’s time we catch up. This was the only block on my schedule this week.”

“I thought you hated planning these,” Sylvain says, confused.

“Screw this,” Felix adds. “You don’t even own Catan, do you? You just wanted to drag me out.”

“I did,” Ingrid says openly, and the second half of her admittance catches Sylvain’s attention in particular: “For your own good.”

His own good? Good for what? If one of them’s the problem here, if one of them needs a solution brought to light, it’s Sylvain. Felix is just here to have a good time.

Felix, true to character, ignores it entirely. “So what the fuck are we supposed to do?” 

“I mean, I have other games,” Ingrid offers as a solution, a fact Felix knows he can’t deny. He groans loudly. 

Sylvain grins. At least Felix’s anger is averted, and any game he’s bound to lose to Felix is better off missing anyway.

After a bit of digging through Ingrid’s bookshelves they manage to round up several options, most of them trailing dust behind on Sylvain’s fingers. All of them amount to nothing. Sylvain doesn’t mind a game of chess — Felix does. Ingrid’s down to play Scrabble — Felix isn’t in the mood. His dissent brings Ingrid closer and closer to the edge (final say belongs to him, he argues, since he got shafted the worst) until she searches under the couch and comes across a deck of playing cards and Felix, mercifully, gives a nod.

“Really, Felix, I didn’t know you could be so difficult,” Ingrid mutters as they seat themselves at the coffee table. “It’s just game night.”

“You dragged _me_ out here,” Felix says, too busy grieving his loss.

Relieved they’ve reached a compromise, Sylvain takes it upon himself to empty the pack and get the ball rolling. Ingrid must have picked these out of a trash can; the cards practically bend in his fingers. It’s fine, he’ll make it work. It’s not the first deck he’s held in his hands. The one thing his father’s known for besides his corporate empire is his preference for local casinos; he’s even taken Sylvain a handful of times to get a taste for Mister Gautier’s preferred form of self-destruction.

He’s just about to ripple shuffle like no man has ever seen when there’s a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” Ingrid says, already on her way before Sylvain or Felix can weasel their way out. The following silence is ironclad. Sylvain shoots Felix a half-hearted glance during their reprieve, but it goes unnoticed since Felix would rather stare at his phone screen than give Sylvain the time of day.

As soon as Ingrid steps aside and said visitor enters, it takes a second for Felix to look up and call out, “Are you _serious."_

“Dimitri,” Sylvain follows up because he’s a considerate person who understands social etiquette. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Neither did I until this morning,” he answers politely. Ingrid doesn’t comment on this, since it’s pretty obvious she’s a criminal mastermind that’s somehow managed to fly under Sylvain’s radar. 

He ignores Ingrid’s attempts to strip him of his coat to agree with Sylvain. “I have to say, Ingrid, it isn’t like you to put together something like this.”

Ingrid, defeated, shrugs and shuts the door. Felix bristles in his seat. Sylvain looks Dimitri up and down as he approaches, massive height and fur mantle — why is everyone dressed for the weather but him? — before proceeding to shuffle the deck with a casual grin. More the merrier. 

It’s obvious that Felix hates this unexpected change, but what else is new?

They don’t have any gambling chips on hand, which, in retrospect, makes sense. They’re at Ingrid's _—_ _why in the world would I have something so bawdy, Sylvain?_ _—_ so, after a bit of discussion, they settle for actual coins, mostly at Dimitri’s insistence. It’s a strange suggestion until Dimitri pulls his wallet out of his coat and, like some sort of crazed lunatic, empties a small mountain of pennies onto the tabletop. 

“The fuck,” Felix directs toward copper mountain, wide-eyed.

“What value should we assign them?” Dimitri says, flipping one with his thumb, grinning at the look on Felix’s face. It’s not far from Sylvain’s, even if he gets a tingle of sick pleasure at seeing Felix perturbed. “I’m running a bit low this month, though I’m willing—”

“Gambling rights,” Ingrid cuts in hastily. “Let’s just say whoever wins gets gambling rights.”

Sylvain tears his gaze from Felix to frown at her. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“It’s reasonable is what it is.”

Felix briefly recovers from the pennies to mull over Ingrid’s verdict; Sylvain can tell that he’s not satisfied, that he’s trying to come up with an alternative. Seiros, the way he covers his lips with those fingers makes Sylvain slightly weak, makes him want to move those fingers aside so he can kiss that mouth. It’s not a bad idea, all things considered — maybe he can gamble for the right to do just that.

Felix, however, beats him to the punch. “Two truths and a lie,” he says.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Dimitri says like he doesn't own copper mountain and just realized it’s a shitload of pennies.

Felix turns to him, making a point to ignore Sylvain’s expression entirely. “Winner with the most chips, or pennies, whatever, can pick whoever they want. Victim coughs up three things about them.” He pauses — maybe he’s reconsidering the idea — but no, he’s taking his sweet time to rile Sylvain up because why else would he add, “Honesty policy. That goes for all of us.”

Well, shit. Does that mean Sylvain actually has to put in effort now?

“I see,” Dimitri says, clearly still trying to figure out what’s going on. “I’ve… never played that before, but I’m willing to give it a shot. Why don’t we set three rounds to start?”

Felix crosses his arms. “Fine.”

Sylvain looks to his right. “Ingrid?”

She’s staring quietly at the pile of cards at hand’s reach. It's not until she sighs that Sylvain has the sneaking feeling her plan’s gone off the rails. “Very well. I’m ready when you are.”

***

For once, Sylvain’s glad his parents rubbed off on him. The amount of times he’s seen Mister Gautier toss in his chips and nearly screw over their fortune has taught Sylvain the basics of what would've otherwise been a very short poker game.

At this point, he and Felix are the two key players remaining. “Call,” Dimitri says with confidence.

Felix rolls his eyes. “For the last time, Dimitri, you’re dealer this round.”

“Ah, you’re right. My mistake.”

“All because I didn’t have Catan,” Ingrid laments sadly. She gives her cards another look, her tell blatantly obvious, then slams them onto the table with a loud groan. “Forget it. I fold.”

Sylvain grins. Felix buries his glare in his hand. He’s glad his own isn’t too bad, considering it's about to determine who's up for grabs. Felix had swept the first round and Sylvain the second, the piles of pennies almost equally divided, but Sylvain has no intention of letting Felix take the lead in their who’s-the-greediest-bastard victory condition.

Fuck it. He hesitates, pretending to think it over. The look he gives Felix is sweeter than his compliments. “Ready, Felix?”

It’s the first time Felix has spoken to him since they started playing. “Hurry it up.”

Sylvain raises half his pile. Felix chokes. As expected, he calls. Dimitri spectates and plays announcer from his impartial high horse. On his countdown, they both show their hands: Felix has a single pair, while Sylvain lucks out with three of a kind. 

The tabletop wobbles dangerously as Dimitri slams his palm down — Ingrid yelps at him to watch his strength — and loudly declares, “Sylvain wins!”

He doesn’t bother swiping his winnings over. Instead, Sylvain makes himself comfortable in his seat. He joins his hands behind his head and says, as playfully as he can, “Oops. How’d that happen?”

Felix, reminding Sylvain of a cat prepared to slit his throat, mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like _piss off._

“So, now that the rounds are finished,” Dimitri says, hands sweeping to corral his pennies, “who will you pick, Sylvain?”

Is that even a question? “Hey, babe,” he says, smile bright, “cough up your end of the deal.”

Although Sylvain came to cheer Felix up and drag his self-esteem down, he honestly doesn’t mind the role reversal. Felix, to no one’s surprise, doesn’t share the same sentiment. He’s crossing his arms and trying to stare a hole in the table, ignoring _his own rules,_ pretending that he’s the only person in existence.

It lasts so long that Ingrid worries. “Felix?”

“Fine,” he says. “Fucking, fine.”

Now is probably a bad time for Sylvain to push it. They’re on thin ice, but Sylvain is nothing if not a purveyor of terrible decisions.

"Don't make it easy for me, now,” and he winks at Felix as he says this.

It does the trick. He's lucky he’s not wearing the cardigan, Sylvain thinks. Wouldn’t work with the color blooming on his cheeks. 

“Fine,” Felix says again, right as Dimitri raises a hand and calls for time-out to grab a glass of water from the kitchen. Sylvain expects Felix to have the patience to wait it out, but Felix seems more eager to get this over with than Sylvain is to hear it.

“My favorite ice cream flavor is strawberry,” he begins.

“That has to be the lie,” Ingrid interrupts, horrified. Felix ignores her and continues.

“Besides Mocha, I have another cat. Jerry.” Strangely, Sylvain doesn’t know if that’s true either. He knows Felix likes cats, though, he’s prattled about Mocha living with his distant relatives more times than Sylvain’s used to hearing him talk. Maybe the last one —

“I’m still in love with Sylvain.”

“What did I miss?” Dimitri asks as he returns to the table, glass in hand. He’s about to settle in his seat when he catches the look on Sylvain's face and asks instead, “Er, Sylvain? Are you alright? You seem ill — should I get you a glass?”

“I'm fine,” he barely forces out. Hard to speak with Ingrid’s walls closing in.

It takes the blare of a phone to cut things short. None of them seem more relieved by this than Ingrid, who immediately lifts it to her ear. From what little Sylvain makes of her shouting, it’s entirely unimportant to the matter taking space between him and Felix like a dead body.

Seriously, what the _fuck?_

“Afraid we’ll have to call it early,” Ingrid says, hanging up. “Turns out I have a meeting in the morning. Dimitri, Felix, Sylvain — thanks for coming on such short notice.”

Felix is first to rise out of his seat, eyes looking everywhere they _shouldn’t_ be as he makes for the coat rack by the door. Dimitri follows in his footsteps, silently aware that he shouldn’t question whatever’s going on. Ingrid stays glued to her seat. She spares Sylvain a glance, the look in her eyes condolatory.

That fucking cardigan Felix slips on is, quite possibly, the ugliest thing Sylvain’s ever laid eyes on.

***

The distance between their apartments hasn’t changed, yet Sylvain swears it’s at least doubled.

Felix isn’t showing signs of warming up, temperature or otherwise. He's not marching ahead. Instead, he's brooding quietly to himself, jaw clenched and hands tucked beneath his shoulders, not bothering to fix his hair as a gust of wind separates the strands.

Sylvain, on the other hand, wants to vomit.

Is that what’s been buzzing through Felix's mind recently? All Sylvain wanted from the start was to make things right, to not screw this up like everything else in his life. But even when it comes to patching things with Felix, he still falls short. He always does, somehow.

Maybe he hasn’t been the smartest guy on the block. Maybe he’s pushed more than he can shove. Still, he deserves better than the massive weight Felix dropped on his chest in front of their _fucking friends._

The scratch of sneakers against pavement turns grating. Felix clearly isn’t making a move towards resolving… whatever this is supposed to be, and Sylvain’s weak, he's always been weak for Felix hasn’t he, so, of course, it’s him who has to break the silence first.

He says, hesitantly, “So.” 

“Mm,” Felix hums, giving nothing in return.

“That was interesting.”

“Sure.”

He looks over at Felix. He had the worst poker face when it came to actual poker, but now — now, with his cheeks bright and pale with no one else to see, Felix seems to have learned the trick towards keeping his mind kept tightly under wraps.

When Sylvain spits his next, that doesn’t change: “What in fresh hell was that?”

His pace slows ever-so-slightly. “You’re not making sense.”

“The game.” The thought of it rips the cold away. “Did you mean what you said?”

He’d rather Felix look him in the eye and break him upfront than dance around it like nothing’s wrong. But Felix seems to get a kick out of torturing Sylvain — as if he can do better than Sylvain himself — so, he just says, “It’s a game. Give it a rest.”

“Like hell I will,” Sylvain retorts, silently thanking the streets for sparing a crowd. He comes to a stop and Felix, to his mild surprise, stops along with him, arms crossed, posture defensive. “You can’t keep acting like nothing’s wrong. Like you didn’t announce our future breakup to our friends. Or are you ignoring that too?”

“I never said that,” Felix says, like _that’s_ the biggest problem here. “I didn’t imply shit.”

Sylvain grimaces. Add another to the pile, why doesn’t he.

“C’mon, Felix. You’ve been avoiding me for days.” Sylvain lifts his hand and jabs a finger into Felix’s chest, though Felix doesn't so much as stir from the motion. “I’m trying to _fix_ whatever's going on. Why is that so hard for you to accept?”

Felix says nothing to that. Why would he, he probably thinks it’s pathetic. The obvious doesn’t satiate him. Begs, compliments, bribery — each of them earns Sylvain a too-distant view of Felix’s back. He’s learned the hard way by now that getting Felix to budge is tossing pebbles at a boulder.

And, sure enough, he’s walking away again, not so much as a glance Sylvain’s way. It’s as clear a sign as any. The way he sets the blame on Sylvain’s shoulders and dismisses the carnage — like Miklan, like Dad — tightens the seams around Sylvain’s chest. He wants to scrub his fingers through that mess of hair, to pull the cardigan off and see Felix a bit more exposed than what he’s showing now.

In retrospect, he’d blame it on the heartburn for telling him to do this, despite the screams telling him to stop. “Is that all?” he calls out. “I should’ve known. You never bother talking about _anything_ worth saving.”

It sticks to him. His posture tightens, coiled to burst. Felix finally looks over his shoulder, but it’s worse than Sylvain expected — he must’ve been practicing at Ingrid's so he could pack every inch of animosity into this one expression.

Sylvain, heart sinking faster than his feet, stares back blankly. The cold strips his throat bare. Felix isn’t sparing a lick of hope. It’s not lost on Sylvain that he’s dug past his grave and is barreling towards the center of the Earth.

“Fine with me, Felix,” he says. “If a breakup’s what you want, do it here and now.” 

“Sylvain.”

“No, get it over with. I'm sick of walking on eggshells.” They’re not far from the apartment. They could easily settle this behind closed doors. But Felix seems insistent on tearing Sylvain down, and Sylvain can play that game better than a stupid hand of poker. 

The upturn of his lips is unexpected. “Gotta admit,” Sylvain says coldly, almost amused, “I had a feeling it’d come to this.”

It’s not unusual to get in fights with your partner, but it _is_ unusual to have them avoiding your touch, often your entire bed. That’s all Felix has been giving him. Hasn’t said more than bottled silence, hasn’t kissed the bruises his tongue leaves behind. Sylvain’s been ignoring the inevitable for a while, ever since their arguments started and Felix behaved just like how he is now: furious and beautiful, at a distance that breaks his heart slowly.

Did he think that Sylvain wouldn’t notice? That Sylvain wouldn't bank on this, wouldn’t use their rusted memories as jerk-off material? At least Miklan was physical with his abuse. At least Dad straight-up told him his worth is confined to financial inheritance. This — Felix standing far, hot as ever, stirring separate feelings between Sylvain’s pants and head — is the kind of shit only Felix can pull off.

The first thing Sylvain notices is how fast Felix walks when he’s heated. The next is his touch. It’s cold, it’s the skin of Felix’s palms, and even if they’re slapped up against his cheeks, Sylvain finds them relieving in more ways than one.

“Sylvain,” he says, low and serious, “for Seiro’s sake, shut up.”

“Huh?” Sylvain says. Has he been talking? No, that doesn’t matter. Felix is looking directly at him, and — fuck. Just, the _way_ he’s looking at him. He can tell by the movement below his belt that it’s certainly been a while. 

If Felix notices that too, he’s kind enough to let it slip. He hums as he searches Sylvain’s expression, those eyes too fast for Sylvain to catch. “You love hearing yourself talk, don’t you?”

Sylvain’s gut reaction is to make a stupid joke about his tongue’s dexterity. He bites it instead. Having Felix here, like this, balancing on this tightrope with him when he could easily walk in the other direction, isn't worth it. 

“Well,” Felix says. “You’re quiet. That's new.”

Sylvain admits, half-jokingly, “It’s taking some effort.” 

“I bet,” Felix says. He’s close enough for Sylvain to see the lines under his eyes, to get a whiff of the cologne Sylvain once bought him as means of making up. Husky and clean, just how Sylvain likes it, maybe more than the growing warmth against his cheek.

Even when covered head-to-toe, Felix’s skin still raises goosebumps, still knows its way back to him, still takes his anger down a peg.

“Sylvain.” His eyes dart back to Felix’s. He’s frowning now, a trademark Sylvain’s familiar with. “Repeat to me what I just said.”

Tentatively, he lifts a hand. He wraps his fingers around Felix’s wrist, and when Felix doesn’t pull away, Sylvain feels his chest loosen a smidge. He wants to rub his palms along his cheeks just to confirm they’re there.

“Lost me there, beautiful,” he says.

This isn’t the right answer; flattery, even honest flattery, never works, obviously, get it together Sylvain. Ask him why he’s sighing like that, what’d he do this time.

He listens to his train of thought for once, and Felix fixes him with a look that’s half sexy, half _I told you so._

“I said, stop jumping to conclusions,” he says. 

That does sound familiar, a few-seconds-ago sort of familiar. Sylvain flares anyway. “Pretty sure I have every right to,” he says, “considering the stunt you pulled.”

“No. If you’d bothered _listening,_ _”_ he stresses on the last word, “this wouldn’t be an issue. We wouldn’t even be here right now.”

Whatever he’s done this time, Sylvain is determined to hear Felix say it. “Enlighten me.”

“Sylvain.” He groans, and Sylvain resists the urge to lean forward and put this all behind them in a whirlwind of furious foreplay. “You really don’t know, don’t you.”

Sylvain’s smile is terrible, immediate. “‘Course I do.”

“Your lying is terrible.” His next words are punctuated by the slaps of his hands to the sides of Sylvain’s face. “You — never — fucking —”

“Okay, okay, I’m listening!” He’s lighter than Miklan’s fists, but Sylvain wrenches Felix's hands away, the stinging of his cheeks way too close to home. Felix lets his arms drop, right as Sylvain recovers and says, “Ugh, sorry. Your hands are cold."

“No, they aren’t.”

"Tell me what’s up. I’m all ears.”

“What you are is an idiot,” Felix corrects. It’s not exactly the revelation Sylvain was hoping for, but it doesn’t matter. He could be doing a lot worse. He could be ripping Sylvain a new one. But he’s not, he’s within reaching distance, and he's —

Wait. Sylvain’s not making this up. Felix is smiling. Threadbare, small, the first crumb he’s given Sylvain in weeks. Sylvain opens his mouth, more than ready to spit out the usual mistake, then remembers why Felix is giving him a chance in the first place. Silently, he lets it fall.

He understands Felix’s micro-movements and can see that he appreciates the gesture. “Good,” he says. “I’ll say it again. I wanted you to _leave me alone.”_

“Felix,” Sylvain begins, but Felix tersely cuts him off before he can continue. 

“If you’d opened your ears,” he says, “you’d know why. I had a reason. You ignored it.” He holds up a hand to stop Sylvain from screwing up twice. “Save it. I know it’s because you’re an idiot.”

Okay, true, but Sylvain just wanted to mention that Felix always wants to be left alone. Most of the time he’s the reason. Felix is tired of yelling at Sylvain to clean up his act. Felix would rather blow off steam in solitary confinement than tell Sylvain to get his shit together. If he’s bringing it up here, then it must be something big.

Sylvain digs through the whirlwind that’s been the last few days, but most of what comes up is dirty or desperate or some unspeakable combination of the two. “I see,” he says, hoping it’ll suffice, aware that Felix can see through his act.

Felix scoffs. “Fine. Since you were too stupid to pay attention, I’ll say it again.”

It’s the additional pause before he speaks again — Felix, who’s just as bad at Sylvain when it comes to restraint — that gives Sylvain the hint that this is real, this is serious. The way he’s mindlessly pulling at the fabric of his cardigan in different directions, trying to distance it from his neck, like he can’t quite remember how to breathe. 

He mumbles out into the cold, “It’s about Mocha.”

The anger flushes out of him. His intake of breath is sharp, frozen. “Mocha?”

Felix winces. He doesn’t continue.

Sylvain's tongue is, for once, abandoning him. He wipes a hand over his face. Out of all the mistakes he’s made, this one could probably drive the rest of his list into obscurity.

His arms are sorely missing Felix right now. There’s a voice in his head telling him to curl himself around Felix, be the cardigan Felix's hands are tugging so desperately at to shield himself from the glare of streetlights and the world that’s crueler than it needs to be.

Sylvain wants to give in to old habits, but he doesn’t. Give him space, that’s what Felix needs, right?

Stopping his lips is a different story. “I’m sorry,” he says. It starts as a ripple, then cascades into a mess of, “I’m sorry, Felix. Fuck, I thought you — you told me about this, didn’t you? You told me about it, and I didn’t listen. I’m so sorry, I must’ve been —”

“It was two nights ago,” Felix says, voice barely dragging above a whisper. His gaze slides to the concrete. “She’s been sick. For a while. Relatives told me it happened in the middle of the night.”

Sylvain is gone. “Felix —”

“I wasn’t there to say goodbye.”

It’s no different than losing a family member for Felix. The way he’s talked about Mocha, shown Sylvain half his photo library, smiled that rare smile Sylvain’s seen once in a blue moon. He wasn’t there when Felix grieved over the people he’s lost — Glenn, his father, perhaps others — he only knows the bare minimum from the bits and pieces Felix has shared with him. The sight of Felix now, eyes downcast with nowhere to look, doesn’t leave much to imagination.

Sylvain searches for a piece of solace, any advice that could get Felix to raise his head again. What comes out is, “Why didn't you tell me what I did wrong?”

Felix does, indeed, raise his head. His lips are drawn in a line. Sylvain gets it — not his responsibility, Felix is dealing with enough, and besides, he has no right to chew Felix out for mishandling his feelings.

Their friends all know that by now: neither of them can properly handle their emotions. Doesn't Ingrid? He recalls his reaction to her text. The premonition that she knew more than Sylvain, that she was planning game night for a reason. Catan or no Catan, at least she knew Felix was going through a rough patch and trying to help him, instead of spoiling her ego over a fucking game of poker.

All he's done so far is hurt Felix. Even now, forcing Felix to drag nails through his throat, to recount painful memories and make up for Sylvain's shortcomings. No wonder Felix must have fallen out of love with him. If he were in Felix’s shoes he'd have done the same. If he wasn't so desperate to put himself first before everyone else.

If he wasn’t terrible. Wasn’t Sylvain.

The gait of a passing couple, happy as shit, stares levied in their direction, punches Sylvain back to Earth. This isn’t the place to do this, he realizes. If Felix wants to call it quits, fine, but he’s not gonna wait for the ball to drop when Felix’s shoulders are hunched like that. It's hard enough for them to breathe without the terrible city air.

He places a hand, gently, on Felix’s shoulder. He can’t help it. The woolen threads seem to be suffocating him.

“Felix,” he begins, wishing that he was better at dealing with grief than he is — that he was better at a lot of things. “I’m sorry. Let’s go home, yeah? We don’t have to talk about it. I’ll leave you alone, I’ll sleep in my own bed, I'll do whatever you want if it makes you feel better. Just — let’s get out of here, at least.”

Felix lifts his head. Sylvain feels the world fade a little. The look in Felix’s eyes is transported out of a different time. Vulnerable, rarely seen, the kind Sylvain’s thought of on more nights than he’d like to admit.

It gives Sylvain, idiot that he is, the slightest sliver of hope.

“Is that how you deal with your problems?” Felix asks. He makes a vague gesture with his hand. “Just… swipe them away to deal with it later?”

There’s a good deal of prevaricating before Sylvain settles on, “Well.”

Felix doesn’t dignify that with a response. He looks at Sylvain. Just looks at him. His brows are furrowing like he’s deep in thought. It takes another pair of strangers passing them — old, doting, the kind of disgustingly cheesy future Sylvain’s always wished for both of them — for Felix to talk again.

“You never guessed which was the lie,” he says.

No, he hadn’t. It’s almost a plea when Sylvain says, “Felix.”

Felix breezes past the sound of his name. “Answer,” he says. “One of us deserves to feel better.”

Sylvain jerks back. “The hell does that mean?”

“Answer. I’ll ignore you again if you don’t.”

The flash of fear Sylvain feels is sudden, irrational, claws tearing at hardwood doors. He chews on his lip. The pockets of his jeans are too small for his fists, despite his attempts to shove them in, so they fall to his side. For a split second, the crease of Felix’s brow reminds him of Mocha’s adorable frown. Small, tabby, almost hidden inside Felix’s toned arms. Felix had loved her, just like he once did him. He must have his reasons for loving something or someone so deeply, reasons Sylvain has to respect he can’t fit anymore. 

It’s time to listen to what Felix is telling him.

But that’s a lot easier said than done if Felix insists on getting so close to him, warming him up in multiple ways. Like how he is now, fingers nimble — Sylvain understands that too, intimately — as they work the buttons of his lapels loose, drag off the woolen sleeves, and drape the length of the cardigan over Sylvain’s shoulders like a misshapen blanket.

It’s comfy. He looks to the side. Felix, exposed arms and all, is looking back. “You were shivering,” he offers as a form of explanation.

Sylvain stutters. 

“Still haven’t figured it out? Here’s a hint. You know I only stick to one thing at a time,” Felix continues. Damn it, boner, not now. Just because he’s a vision in that T-shirt that’s slightly too tight for him and he’s grinning like _that;_ like he’s not thinking of Mocha, like he’s not about to lash out at Sylvain, but rather, _appreciates_ him for being here. “Cats included.”

Cats? 

Is he being serious?

“Don’t mess with me,” Sylvain begs. “Please.”

“I’m not.” Felix shrugs. Sylvain wants to latch onto those shoulders like a teddy bear. “Mocha was special to me. Besides, the fuck kind of name is Jerry for a cat?”

It’s not normal for Sylvain to be horny and speechless _and_ have his ears perked, but maybe he’ll start combining them more often. Felix seems to enjoy the latter two, at least.

“Obvious enough?” he says. “I don’t have to repeat myself, do I?” 

The truth. He’s talking about the truth, one of the two Felix had shared, the one Sylvain knows to be true now. Felix doesn’t have to repeat it, even if Sylvain wants to hear it, wants to see those lips say it, wants to unblur the mess of streetlights and cologne and relief.

How long have they been standing here, out in the open, working out the pulse of a strained relationship that’s still beating? How long has Sylvain been doubting the one out of three that ought to be second nature if Felix wasn’t right about him being an idiot?

“No,” he says. “I know which it is.”

Felix nods. “Good,” he says. He tugs at the cardigan, readjusting it to fit Sylvain’s frame a bit better. In all honesty, Sylvain would rather he tug on something else, but he’s not complaining. He’s having trouble accepting a lot of things at the moment.

“As an apology,” Felix says, working to slip the buttons into the holes — the jokes are practically writing themselves at this point — “you can buy me ice cream in the morning. Helps with the grieving process.”

He's being deadly serious. Sylvain holds back a chuckle. Morbid as the statement is, it’s not unlike Felix to put Sylvain to work or find little ways to bounce back on his feet. He must be feeling better already.

“Is that it?” he says. Felix is starting to look better too. His eyes aren't as blank as they were, his cheeks are slightly less pale, the latter still stone-carved and awfully lonely without Sylvain's kisses. Though his head is bowed, there’s a slight upturn to his lips that loosens the noose around Sylvain’s chest.

Ice cream, huh? “Sure, I’ll get you your favorite. Strawberry, right?”

“Right.” He fusses a bit more, looks Sylvain up and down as he wraps up and, judging by the look on his face, seems satisfied with something Sylvain can’t exactly put his finger on. Can’t be the cardigan, the thing barely fits. Was it something he said? (Maybe, if he’s being pretentious, how he looks?) 

He doesn’t enlighten Sylvain. He just turns on his heel, not so much as a word, ready to set off. And he does. Sylvain watches him pace away down the sidewalk, admiring him at the respectable distance Felix had asked for. This time, though, something is different. He’s not speeding to get things over with. This time, he looks over his shoulder and fixes Sylvain with a look, eyelashes and all, that melts him into a puddle. 

“We can check the bookshop after,” he says. “They might have Catan there.”

Sylvain’s cheeks stretch under his smile. “Yeah,” he says. He tugs at the cardigan's sleeves — they really _are_ warm — and quickens his pace until he’s at a jog, joining Felix’s side before he gets too far. He’s warm now, but not because of clothing or exertion. The three words in his throat could put any lousy cardigan to shame.

This time, Felix doesn’t have to say it in a roundabout way. Sylvain doesn’t either. He doesn’t even have to listen. It’s there, it’s the truth, and if it wasn’t for the fucking cardigan, he’d have the chance to feel the strands of Felix’s hair pressed against his chest as he wraps one hand around his shoulder — as Felix leans in to his touch, much closer than previously requested, on the walk home.

_I love you_. Felix says it anyway, silently, as he kisses Sylvain at the doorway to their apartment. 

Sylvain, now that he’s getting used to it, listens. His smile, his response, is just as eager as the night fades behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> i may or may not have listened to an inordinate amount of cardigan.mp3 while writing this
> 
> thank you for reading! lets be friends on [twitter](https://twitter.com/blahzor1) :)


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